


A Heart that Haunts

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, ghost!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:25:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam get kidnapped by hunters out for revenge of the killing of Steve Wandell. They get to the hospital, and Dean has to deal with the bloody aftermath and one messed up little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart that Haunts

The Impala screeches roughly as Dean brakes, but she still bumps over the curb and almost hits a bench that was sitting outside the hospital. Dean swears, one hand roughly grabbing his brother’s shirt collar and the other clutching at his stomach and the tatters of his shirt that cover it.

He grimaces, a tiny stream of blood and spit leaking out of the corner of his mouth as he shoves the car door wide open. He lets go of Sam reluctantly, even though his head screams at him not to.  _“_ _What if that was the last time you’ll ever touch him?”_ a fraction of his mind asks. He watches with growing panic as Sam limply falls against the passenger window, no long having Dean to support him.

With Dean’s first step, he almost collapses, moaning loudly in pain. He hears someone run inside, followed by the sliding doors whisk open, and the man calls for help, but he can’t see any of this, vision fuzzing and swimming with tears as he struggles to play through the pain. His own words, right? He could almost kick himself for saying some bullshit. He makes a mental note to be more grateful for simple hunts in the future, if he even still has a future.

 

Hands bracing against the Impala’s hood, he slides around to get to the passenger side door. He winces at the sight of the trail of blood his palms left. He jerks Sam’s door open, and his little brother sags against him immediately. Grunting with the extra weight, he notices with relief that Sam’s eyes open, albeit just a crack. He looks around blearily, clearly out of it.

“Think you can stand?” Dean barks, wondering where the hell their help was.

Sam nods, grabbing Dean’s soaked shirt tightly in one hand as he attempts to get up.

It’s then that Sam screams, something full of pain, way, way too loud and almost inhuman.

Dean would’ve done something about it, was worried sick, but he blacked out just then, and felt strong hands stop his fall before he was fully dead to the world.

—

Things came back to him very gradually, one sense at a time.

First it was his hearing. A dull, monotonous beeping sound causes him to stir. Muffled voices outside sound like they’re underwater, and he struggles to hear more, to get his bearings.

Then the sense of smell. Something sterile, a strong smell of bleach that burns in his nose, and the underlying smell of blood.

At that scent, the rest of him swims to the surface, and he opens his eyes, gasping. He’s in a hospital room, that much is obvious. His damn heart monitor won’t shut up. A throbbing pain makes itself felt everywhere.

The door slams open, and he jerks his head towards it, hoping to see Sam.

Instead, it’s a timid-looking nurse. Before he can say anything (and he’s not quite sure he can, his mouth feels like it’s home to a thousand cotton swabs), she cries, “Oh my god! He’s awake!”

A small army of men and women in hospital wear march into his room, pricking him and feeling him up and reading off a bunch of mumbo-jumbo that he couldn’t quite keep up with. He was sure someone was asking him questions, but the harder he tries the to focus, the less focused he gets.

He tries to sit up, and someone forces him back down. “Where’s Sam?” He demands roughly, hating how his words catch in his sore throat.

He was pretty positive someone had just asked him to calm down, and that was bullshit.

He battles against the hands restraining him, fighting even though it hurt like hell, and trust him, he knew how that felt. “Where’s my fucking brother?!” He roars, “Tell me where my brother is!”

Something bigger pricks him. A needle, maybe? His mind’s too fuzzy. It all feels like a terrible acid trip. He hears himself colorfully and creatively curse the needle-bearer. Distantly he muses that the needle was a sedative, and he floats further and further down into a sea of nothingness. He loses consciousness again with the name “Sam” on his lips and a prayer in his mind.

—

The second time he wakes, it’s much less of an ordeal than the first time.

Dean can feel the stitches all over his body and the warmth of multiple painkillers running through his bloodstream. But most of all, however, he feels something even warmer gripping his right hand like it’s a friggin’ life preserver.

“Dude,” he mutters without thinking, “Do you want me to lose all my fingers?”

“Dean?” A familiar voice gasps, “Are you awake?”

“Does it sound like I’m awake?” he snipes before his head puts a face to the voice.

_That’s Sam’s voice._

Dean gets jettisoned into full lucidity by the realization, and he struggles to sit up, to see if Sam’s in a wheelchair, or Sam even has all of his appendages, or-

“Hey, take it easy,” Sam coos, putting a hand on Dean’s chest to stop his progress. “You’re gonna pull something.”

He sounds fine, at least.

“God, Sammy, are you okay?” Dean asks, looking over every inch of his little brother.

“In one piece,” Sam amends, and for a split second, Dean swears he saw guilt etched deep into his brother’s features. But he must’ve been imagining it, because now Sam’s looking at him like he’s the last thing left in the universe.

“You almost died,” Sam chokes before Dean can get another word in. He hasn’t let go of Dean’s hand— if anything, his grip has gotten tighter, like Dean’s his security blanket.

Dean supposes that’s true, and works the other way around, too.

“Look who’s talkin’,” Dean says to Sam, but the weird thing is, he can’t find a single mark on the kid. Hell, not even the friggin’ papercut Dean remembers Sam bitching about before everything went to shit.

“You look good,” Dean notes suspiciously.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sam jokes, but he sobers quickly. “Seriously, I’m okay. I’m not perfect, either. All the stitches and scars are hidden from view, thank you,” he informs Dean, tugging on his clothes for good measure, which is when Dean realizes that he is wearing clothes— not a hospital gown.

“Did you get released?” Dean inquires, checking Sam over for a hospital bracelet. There isn’t one.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “My injuries were mostly artificial, I lost a lot of blood but that’s it.”

And finally, finally, Dean can relax. He’s done with his Sammy-checkup, something he’s perfected over the years. And Sam’s fine. Thank fucking God, Sam is fine, for once. Maybe they aren’t so cursed after all.

It’s like Sam can read his mind. As always, they’re in sync.

“But you,” Sam begins softly. “You’re in a hell of a shape, Dean. I almost didn’t recognize your face.”

“That bad, huh?” Dean asks, and his pain makes itself a little more noticable.

And of course, Sam notices, too. “I’ll get the doctor,” he says quickly, and stands up, heading for the door.

“No, hey wait, Sammy-” Dean tries, but a nurse bustles in right then, and Dean can’t see Sam anymore. He sighs and lays back as the nurse begins her checkup, which is a little more physical than Dean would’ve liked. Not that she wasn’t hot, but Dean had way more important things on his mind. And the pain meds were kind of dulling any kind of drive he had, and _when had she had time to up his dosage?_

Dean wonders about all of this, worries about Sam for a reason he can’t define, and finally succumbs to sleep.

—

Over the next few days, Dean makes about as much recovery as what’s to be expected. His aches and pains tend to disappear when Sam shows up, however, so he doesn’t really mind this hospital all that much. Even the police interrogations about the kidnapping they experienced (so not fun, by the way) went pretty smoothly. He was able to give them a pretty convincing fake ID and story that wasn’t about bitter hunters saying “This is for Steve Wandell.”. Wrong place, wrong time. The police seemed satisfied, and they didn’t question Sam at all, who was sitting nearby the entire time, which was kinda weird. But Dean was okay with that, because Sam had been looking pretty high-strung and frazzled lately.

It was worrying the shit outta Dean.

Not only that, but Sam somehow managed to stay by his side pretty much twenty four-seven, even after visiting hours. Dean had no idea how Sam did it, and when he pressed Sam about it, he got stressed, so Dean let it go. Must’ve been an awkward conversation with a nurse or something. Sam was never the ladies man that Dean was, and Dean found that oddly endearing.

His bumbling little brother.

The only times Sam ever gave Dean his privacy were when the nurses came around to check on Dean, and boy was he grateful for that. Apparently Dean had suffered some “upper thigh” injuries, which weren’t pretty. He  could still have kids, thank the mighty heavens. Not as if he ever would.

He simply couldn’t imagine leaving Sam anymore, and it was obvious Sam felt the same.

Sam’s by his side, right now. Dean had to scooch over on the hospital bed to make room for the giant, but they both fit, and Dean likes the shoulder-to-shoulder constant touch that was going on in here.

Sam’s silent, and still, though, and frankly that was pretty unnerving for Dean.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself short of any words when Sam wraps an arm around his shoulders, and leans his head to fit in the crook of Dean’s neck.

And then Dean realizes the kid is crying.

“Woah, woah hey, Sammy, you okay?” Dean asks, even though he knows the answer.

In response, Sam only curls himself upon Dean further, fisting a clump of Dean’s hospital gown in one hand, tethering himself to Dean.

Dean does the only thing he can do at this point- he puts his arms around his brother, rubbing soothing circles on Sam’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, and his voice cracks with misery.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of this is your fault,” Dean says calmly. “You couldn’t have known they would come after us, okay buddy? And before you give me any of that self-loathing crap, it was all Meg. Not you. When you were getting tortured in there, I couldn’t… I mean I couldn’t handle it. I was gonna rip their throats out.”

“You did,” Sam laughs, but Dean can still hear the tears in his voice.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Dean acknowledges. Sometime during all of this, Dean had rested his chin on Sam’s head. Oh, well. He doesn’t have any intention to move.

Over in the corner, his heart monitor fucks up for a second, the screen flickering and the line displaying his heartrate goes all over the place. Sam jerks his head up, looking at the monitor with alarm.

“Hey, dude, just something wrong with the machine. I’m still in once piece,”  Dean comforts him.

“That’s not what I was worried about,” Sam mumbles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Now the machine has a reason to jump. “You sure you’re all right? You’re not running a fever or anything?”

In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite. Sam’s forehead is cold, so Dean holds him tighter, and Sam curls his arms around Dean’s chest in response. Silence surrounds them like a fog, and Dean’s monitors calm down. It’s getting darker outside, and Dean stifles a yawn.

“Yeah, well, we’re alright. Aren’t we, kiddo?” Dean asks, ruffling Sam’s hair.

Sam nods against Dean’s chest, and Dean thinks, I could get used to this.

They fall asleep like this, holding onto each other, and for the first time in a long time, Dean sleeps soundly.

—

In the morning, Dean awakes to a cold room, and a lack of Sam. He’s been making progress, and he sits up with little difficulty, searching the room for his baby brother. No sign.

Just then, a nurse comes in, clipboard in hand. Upon seeing Dean awake, she smiles, and scribbles something on her paper. “Glad you’re awake,” she comments, flicking a finger against Dean’s IV drop.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean replies distractedly. “Hey, have you seen my little brother?”

The nurse freezes as if she’s been shot. Slowly, jerkily, she stops her ministrations, and looks down at Dean in pity.

“What? He’s alright, isn’t he?” Dean asks, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

“Oh, sweetie,” the nurse says, sighing, “Your brother was in very bad shape when we brought him in. He didn’t even make it to surgery, god rest his soul.”

“What?” Dean asks, angrily, but it comes out as more of a strangled noise.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the nurse says, and by her fleeting looks to the door, Dean knows she’s uncomfortable, knows she wants to leave.

But she can’t, not after a  _sick_  joke like that.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean demands. “This isn’t fucking funny. Let me see my goddamn brother.” He’s downright growling by the end of the sentence, and he sits up straighter, ripping his IV straight out of his arm.

Immediately, the nurse hurries over, pushing him back down into the bed. “Careful, darling, you’ll hurt yourself,” she warns him.

By this point, Dean’s beyond livid, and he shoves her back roughly, not noticing her hand on the “call” button behind his bed. He throws the cover off of his bed and swings his legs over the edge, wincing as he feels his sutures pull and snap.

Like a tidal wave, doctors flood in his room, and Dean goes feral, fighting and warring against all of them at once. He clocks someone in the nose, another doctor goes down after him, and someone yells “Call security!”.

“WHERE’S MY BROTHER?!” Dean roars. “SAM! SAMMY!”

Just like that, one tiny prick he hadn’t even noticed, and his vision is blurring, his speech is slurring. He falls back onto the bed and the hands release him.

“No,” he moans once, quietly, fighting sluggishly against nothing. “No… please…”

Once again, Dean Winchester finds his way to nothingness.

—

Dean awakes, like moving through water at first, until his memory causes him to snap back to reality. He starts to sit up, but a hand pushes him back down. In the chair next to his bed, sits Sam. He’s smiling lovingly at Dean, longingly, like Dean’s the only thing that matters. Dean’s caught Sam with this look before— Sam stares at him like this when he thinks Dean isn’t looking. Dean’s pretty sure he does the same. Both of them are just too wimpy to say anything about it.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, eyes crinkling as he smiles a little wider.

“Sam, thank bejeezus,” Dean gasps. “The nurse told me you were fucking dead. I’m pretty sure I broke someone’s nose over that.”

Instead of laughing, instead of grinning and saying “How funny is that?” or suggesting an exorcism, Sam’s face crumples with guilt and sadness.

“…Sam?” Dean asks cautiously.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam sobs, unable to look at him.

Dean laughs, for want of anything else to do in this situation. “You don’t look very dead to me,” he says, his voice betraying his nerves as it wavers.

Sam doesn’t respond, instead looks toward the florescent lights on the ceiling.

Dean follows his gaze, and suddenly he’s freezing. His breath puffs out in front of him in a cloud. “Oh, hell no,” he says as every machine in the room begins to scream and the lights flicker wildly.

Just as soon as it began, it’s over. Someone outside jiggles the doorhandle. “Did you lock it?” A voice asks, muffled. A shuffle of feet, and someone else tries the door. It’s no use. Dean knows why.

Slowly, wholeheartedly in denial, Dean turns to look at Sam.

He flickers in and out of existence, jolted and quick like a lightning strike.

Dean makes a noise in his throat, and suddenly his vision is blurry again, but no one’s given him any meds.

He realizes the clothes Sam’s wearing are the clothes he wore when they were taken, and they’re stained with blood.

“I just couldn’t leave you here,” Sam says quickly, trying to appeal to Dean, “Dean, I couldn’t. I had to see you. I had to see you make it out of there alive. It was hard at first, I tried so damn hard to be seen, but nothing worked. And you were asleep so often, I just had to make sure you were okay. Dean, please,” Sam’s begging by the end of the sentence, clutching both of Dean’s warm hands in his two frigid ones.

“You should’ve just gone!” Dean snaps, tearing his hands away from Sam’s, causing the boy to flicker again. “You were selfish. What do you think it’s doing to me? Did you ever think about how I would feel?”

“Yes!” Sam exclaims, and now they’re both crying. “Dean… god please…” he trails off, and the lights flicker again.

Dean realizes with a jolt that if he doesn’t calm Sam down, shit is going to hit the fan. Sharing a room with an angry spirit is not any fun. He knows what he has to do, even if it’s killing him just to admit it to himself.

“Hey, Sam, it’s okay. It’s okay, dude. I forgive you, got that? I understand.” Dean rushes this out, grabbing Sam’s hands again and forcing eye contact. “Sam.”

Sam looks at him, and the desperate plea for anything but the truth makes Dean want to drive them both off a cliff.

“Sammy… you’re smart,” Dean continues, gripping Sam’s hands tighter and pulling them up to his chest. “You know what has to happen next.”

“N-no,” Sam stutters, shaking his head wildly. The door rattles in its bearings. “No.”

“I don’t like it, either. Hell, I hate it more than you, I know that for sure. But Sam, if you don’t do this, you’re going to turn into something that’s not you. I’d rather kill myself than see that happen to you. Please, Sammy, you could kill someone. Kill me.”

“Don’t say that!” Sam pleads, “Dean… please…”

“Hey.” Dean shushes him, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s not like we’ll never see each other again, right? I’m pretty sure you’re heading upstairs, bucko,”

“But what if I’m not?” Sam asks brokenly. “I’m scared, Dean.”

“I know for a fact that you’re going to heaven. You’ve got to trust me, okay? You saved the world, dude. Multiple times. I’m sure you’ve got a spot reserved for you, with jacuzzis and shit. And we’re soulmates, remember? I’ll be there to join your little party,” Dean consoles.

“That’s worse!” Sam exclaims, “Please don’t kill yourself. Don’t fucking do it.”

“You know I can’t promise that,” Dean responds quietly.

“Well, you have to,” Sam swallows, trying to look brave. “For me. Or I won’t go.”

“Same ending to a different story.”

Sam shakes his head. “Just… please,” he pulls a shaky breath. “Please.”

Dean nods, and they break apart. The lack of feeling is killing Dean slowly— he just wants to reach out and touch Sam, feel his warmth, his pulse, even though he knows he won’t find either.

Sam nods, and his face loses its composure for a second before he nods again. He wipes the tears from his eyes and sniffs, looking at Dean, memorizing his face. Dean’s doing the same.

Always in sync.

“I love you,” Sam murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

Dean can’t bring himself to say anything, his throat is too constricted. He can only nod, even though he hates himself for it. But Sam gets the message, smiling briefly, before he looks toward the window. The blinds move, fluttering with an unseen wind, and then the sun’s pouring through the clouds, straight into their room. It’s warm and all-encompassing, and Dean knows for a fact that hell wouldn’t give a ride like that.

“I told you,” he whispers, grinning with his tears, as the light in the room becomes blinding.

The doctors burst in as the light fades, looking around in urgency for any sign of something wrong. Dean stares at the empty hospital chair, smiling. The doctors linger for a moment, checking him over just to be sure. They can’t muster a single word out of him. Still confused, they leave the room, leaving Dean to his own devices.

—

When Dean finally, finally gets released three days later, he guns it back to the motel room, to Sam’s laptops and the myriad of books they took with them on their last case before they were interrupted.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he says to no one in particular, flipping a page, “you’re just too damn good for heaven. I hope they still have your receipt.”

If there’s one thing Dean’s good at, one single thing he can pride himself on, it’s getting back to his brother.


End file.
